


The Great Flood; or, A Conversational Cleansing

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Grace Kink, Hand Jobs, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Cas drops in to chat while you enjoy a luxurious bath and the conversation takes a revelatory turn. Explicit plotless bathtub smut diluted with a drop or two of humor.





	The Great Flood; or, A Conversational Cleansing

Water envelopes you in comforting warmth, the heat seeping into your muscles to ease their tension. Soap bubbles fizz, bursting in a continuous calming crackle in a bath filled to the brim with scented oils and mountains of white fluff. The soothing fragrance of lavender overwhelms all others, billowing upward in a rise of steam to ornament the air. Thin fog mists every surface set aglow by the amber flicker of candlelight. The three wicks dancing in the melted wax and the soaker-sized tub make this rare indulgence an authentic spa experience. You feel sorry for Sam and Dean who lost the coin toss for dibs on the motel’s vacant deluxe, with a capital _D_ , honeymoon suite. Sponging a plush cotton washcloth across the silken skin of your face and neck, this pang of empathetic guilt is fleeting. You’ll be certain to rub your perfectly exfoliated pores in their sulking faces at breakfast.

If it weren’t for the dull ache of bruises adorning your body courtesy of a dearly departed denizen of the demonic variety you tussled with several blessedly fading hours ago, you’d believe you presently lay in Heaven. Well, you’d be convinced if not for the contusions _and_ the empty wine glass sat on the tub surround. You’re certain there are no unfilled glasses in Paradise. You remind yourself to ask Castiel about this supposition later; because if there are, you’d like to lodge some sort of preemptive formal complaint to avoid any future inconvenience to the eternal peace of your immortal soul.

You lick the residue of alcohol glazing your lips and wish you’d had the forethought to bring the bottle of wine in here with you. Tongue tracing the bowed outline of flesh, you reawaken the titillating imprinted memory of an unanticipated angelic kiss pressed thereon. You imagine the angel, too, would be a _heavenly_ addition to the ambiance. Lids drooping, you envision Cas’ lips crushed again to yours. Embellishing the scene with the heft and hardness of his vessel lain over your lissome body, your fingers slither to massage the throb of longing kindling at the apex of your thighs. Hips falling open, you writhe as twists of bliss tickle your belly and tighten in your core.

A gentle rustling penetrates the haze to caress your somnolent senses. You cannot help the wistful moan quivering in your throat upon perceiving this disturbance to your blissful torpor. The debauched note exhales past parted lips to thrum the luxuriant ether. It sounds distinctly like a rasping cry of, “ _Cas_.” There’s no urgency or alarm as your eyelids lift, head lolling to your bare sweat-slick shoulder to glance sideways where you expect to see nothing more than your towel fallen to the floor from its resting place on the stool.

Instead, the hem of a familiar trench coat shrouding an incorrigibly socially inept but nonetheless adorable angel swings into your field of view.

“Cas!” you squeal, roiling the tranquil waters, splashing the floor and his feet as you thrash around, reflexively gathering floating rafts of wayward bubbles to strategically shroud your nakedness. The reactive display is an amalgam of genuine surprise and extreme mortification at being caught unawares. Sinking deeper into the water, pink tinting your already flushed features, you wonder if he sensed you fondling yourself to thoughts of him.

The angel’s jaw hinges open, lips and teeth and tongue stumbling over one another in a madcap race to appropriate words, response stymied as he vacillates between the necessity of greeting niceties versus an apology for the blunder of ill-timing. This bewildered sprint for syllables does nothing to hinder the lascivious meander of his blue eyes drinking in the entire expanse, crown to toe, of your stark squirming form.

“What are you doing here?” you pant, heart dashing and breathless beneath his keen regard.

He reigns in wide wandering pupils, whipping them upward to inspect the veil of condensation varnishing the ceiling. Acutely aware of his impudence and his nascent arousal, he pivots and endeavors to appear as detached from interest as angelically possible as if it weren’t already too late. “Sorry,” he decides on a course of contrition. Perhaps a smidgen of him _is_ sorry; a significant and burgeoning bit of him very clearly wants to keep looking. Gulping, his Adams apple bobs at the yoke of a suddenly too tight tie. Forehead crinkling in a fleshy mass of earnestness, he explains, “Earlier today when…I mean, after-”

Stare swooping to examine the water-splotched leather of his boots, he struggles to address the topic of the impassioned kiss you exchanged earlier today in light of what he just blustered in to witness. It was a simple innocent kiss. A kiss put on for show to maintain the ruse of your cover as a couple. A kiss a tad too intense and needy to be truly feigned. A kiss that left you both speechless and gawking at one another until it became clear by the scuffle unfolding around you between the Winchesters and a group of demons wholly unimpressed by your demonstration that the _jig_ was definitely _up_ and your immediate intervention relevant to the matter of defeating foes would be appreciated lest, as he so helpfully bellowed out between blows to the head, Dean return from the grave, _again_ , to murder you himself with his bare hands no less. A kiss, evidently, also very much at the forefront of your mind.

Jamming his fists into his pockets, rolling his expressive eyes and punctuating the statement with an emphatic lift of the brow, the avoidant angel strains to suggest, “-you know.”

Oh boy, do you _know_. But being at a disadvantage with little left to hide, you urge him onward with a mutely matching furrow curving to your temples.

Jawbone fretting, nostrils flaring, unclear where he should look based on the wild bounce of his blues wall to floor to sink to ceiling, he continues to skirt any specificity about the smooch, “You, uh, you said you wanted to talk later. You didn’t indicate a time. I-”

“Figured it was _later_?” you suggest. You don’t fail to mark with an amused smirk his fingers rematerializing from his pockets to loosen the characteristically lax knot of his tie.

He nods.

“Okay,” you concede. Interlude of peace already irreparably interrupted, the fortifications of your sudsy shroud holding strong, you figure you may as well squeeze as much fun as humanly possible out of the awkward angel’s intrusion. After all, he does appear awfully hot and bothered and eager to _talk_ , or something. “Then let’s talk,” you deadpan, hopes hanging on the unspoken _something_.

He’s all too familiar with your ruthless use of cynicism, and despite much practice, he continues to have trouble judging sincerity from sarcasm. Part of him thinks _let’s talk_ is the invitation to remain in your resplendently nude company it appears to be, the other part thinks it means _scram, you silly seraph_! Comprehending the nuanced combination you currently employ of both modalities is beyond his capability. Wary of a verbal trap, his gaze whets your way in halting increments. Restraining his focus, he’s careful to avoid drifting below your neckline. Alighting on your rosy-hued features, he squints, searching your aspect for any tell-tale signs of ambush. 

Your pokerfaced countenance divulges no useful information.

Pursuing clarification and potential escape, he ventures, “Perhaps I should return later, when-”

“Sit,” you instruct, motioning a dripping hand toward the stool, conscious of his literal tendency to _literately_ overthink literally everything.

A minute flinch tremors his musculature at the firmness of your tone. Following your gesture, he flattens the fabric of the coat draping thick thighs to lower himself onto the stool. Vessel uncooperative in his efforts to subdue the overt physical interest he’s experiencing, he crosses one leg over the other and commences ardent contemplation of the drips of humidity wending tiny gleaming trails down the mirror opposite.

You stifle a giggle at his obvious discomfiture. Grabbing the rim of the tub, you shimmy to perch your elbows on the edge and stack your chin upon them.

His eyes surreptitiously dart, drawn toward the action, and just as quickly return to their rapt rumination of the frosted reflection of the world inhabiting the mirror. He folds his hands in his lap, thumbs scraping repeatedly over one another.

Ogling him in smiling silence, you watch his stoic resolve slowly crumble.

Readjusting his legs, he idly picks at the stitching of his coat. Finally, unable to tolerate the hush or your scrutiny any longer, he clears his throat, asking, “Are you certain you, uh, you don’t find your nakedness as distracting as I do?”

“You find my nakedness distracting?” You eagerly latch on to the line of inquiry – it’s one thing to toy with the involuntary provocation of his human vessel, to push the limits of his tolerance, but you only dared dream of a confession of checked concentration vexing the celestial being housed within.

He gulps in answer, unable to deny the temptation you present, ruddy tint creeping up his neck to mantle his cheeks and betray the divine depth of his attraction.

Seizing on his lack of a rebuff, you tease, “Call it an exercise in semantics, but I believe my exact words were that I wanted you to _see_ me later.”

Fisting the fabric of his coat, his eyes divert from the mirror to meet yours.

Emboldened by the shadow of lust eclipsing his shining sapphire irises, tongue sweeping the briny veneer of sweat beading above your mouth, you draw your lower lip suggestively between your teeth – a gentle reminder of the heated kiss and an invitation to perhaps pick up where he left off.

Attention straying to the pliant pout of your mouth, observing the blood blanch as your teeth rake across the plump pink petal of flesh, a wave of desire threatens to capsize his vessel from its seat. Listing to the port side, he grabs the edge of the wobbling stool and anchors a foot flat to the floor to keep from falling off.

You arch a single brow, simpering, “Do you like what you see, angel?”

Uninhibited by the nature of your query, his blues travel, glinting dark in their approval, from your coquettishly pursed lips to the round swell of breasts barely obscured beneath loosely arranged arms and dwindling foamy lather to the voluptuous curve of a hip breaking the water’s surface and back again to your innocently inquiring fluttering lashed gaze. “Yes,” the growl rumbles from deep within his chest, reverberating palpably to shake the space between you. “I find your radiance a constant source of revelation.”

“Revelation, eh? How…virtuous,” you hum. Blushing at his unguarded lust, you duck your face into the nook of your arm, puffs of delighted laughter rippling the water around you in response to his candor. When you again peep up at him, a compact self-assured smile lingers on his lips. Arousal flurries in your belly. “So then,” you dare, voice tumbling an octave lower, “are you planning to sit over there playing coy with your church-choirboy crush wondering what that kiss _really_ meant all night, or are you going to come a little closer to seek _revelation_?” You flash him an alluring smile. When you blink, he’s gone. “Cas-,” before you can complete uttering his name, the water heaves up around you, breeching the rim of the tub and soaking the surrounding tile floor, “-tiel?” You flounder in the undulant wave, trying to stay semi-upright in the tumultuous displaced whirl of the water. Gurgling, wiping at the soaked strands of hair overhanging your eyes, your astonished gaze lands on the sopping-wet fully-clothed angel now situated at the opposite end of the bath.

“Is this close enough for what you have in mind?” he enquires. The head tilt, narrowed eyes, splayed knees, and blue tie suspended on the water’s surface in front of him merge to form a striking vision of effortless adorableness.

Snorting a laugh, you capture his tie. Winding it around your wrist to tug him nearer, angling forward, rivulets of water and suds cascade your exposed breasts. “You’re getting closer, that’s for sure,” you muse and brush a demure feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

There is no hesitancy when he grasps at your waist to tow your naked form flush to his chest. Pressing foreheads, nudging your cheek with his nose, skimming a palm up the slippery slope of your back to tangle his fingers into your damp hair, mouth hovering over yours, you share a suspended breath of charged air before interlocking lips.

You moan, wanton, into the honeyed taste of his mouth, assenting when his tongue demands access to intensify the kiss and melting into the fluidity of his embrace. No pretense. No Winchesters. No distractions. No question in either of your minds as to what this kiss means or where it’s headed. Gasping and giddy when you surface for oxygen, you roll in his arms to recline against the firm plane of his torso.

“How about now?” he asks, the fabric of his drenched trench slick and warm against your skin as he wraps his arms about you and nuzzles the crook of your neck, prickling the delicate flesh with his unshaven chin.

“Hmm?” you sigh, your ability to concentrate utterly impaired.

“Am I getting closer?” he clarifies. Cautious of your boundaries in the demonstration of his affections, he peppers a trail of patient kisses along the column of your throat and the breadth of your collarbone as he waits for you to catch up.

“Oh,” you purr, recognizing the game. Slithering your ass over the erection bulging his pants, encouraging his tender explorations by rewarding him with friction, you advise, “You’re getting warmer.”

Groaning into your skin, his hands glide to cup your breasts, massaging the soft swells of flesh, pinching and rolling their hardened buds between his calloused fingertips. He moves the ministrations of his mouth to the neglected side of your neck, nipping and laving an ascending path up the sinewy stretch of your throat. “And now?” he whispers, breath hot as he kisses and sucks at the lobe of your ear.

Reaching out to clutch his knees, using them for leverage to wriggle against his hardening cock, you whimper, “Oh, you’re getting _hot_. Very hot.” Clawing at the barrier of saturated fabric separating your fingers from his bare skin, you gripe, “Cas, clothes.”

“Better?” his compliant groan vibrates salaciously against your nape, freed member bobbing rigid against your ass.

“Mmm, definitely hotter,” you gasp.

In exodus from your nipples, his fingers dip beneath the water line to trace ticklish swirling eddies into your skin. Their path wends lower and lower on your abdomen until you’re quaking with anticipation. “Fuck, Cas,” you whine.

“Soon,” his promise is a sinful growl, “first-”

You’ve quite literally never been wetter in your life. His finger drags a shallow course through your heat, and you shudder, walls pulsing with need when he withdraws his touch.

“-tell me, am I close enough yet?”

“You’re on fire, angel,” you moan in a wrecked whimper.

Somewhere in the hedonistic miasma rocking your frame as he thrusts and curls first one and then another long finger to hit your sweet spot over and over, bringing you to the precipice of paradise and then directing his attention elsewhere to delay your relief while setting the peak and payoff of pleasure exponentially higher, you realize two can play at this game.

As he lavishes a bruise over your pulse point, teasing talented fingers kneading the plump flesh of your hips, grace stimulating your clit with enough force to set off sparks of toe-curling delight but not enough to hurl you into the brink, you surprise him. Slipping sideways to steal a kiss, slinking a hand between your bodies, slender fingers seize and stroke his shaft.

Cock twitching in your clutch, hips springing up in an involuntary buck, he quivers beneath you.

Smirking against the tremble of his lips, you run a thumb through his dripping slit, and repeat the stroking motion over his length with a swivel of the wrist.

A strained _unf_ escapes his parted lips. Eyes squeezed shut, jaw agape, his head thuds backward to rest on the white porcelain.

Teeth grating the delicious line of his jaw, you mumble the request into his skin. “Fall with me, angel.”

Knuckles knotting, he digs hard into the bones of your hips, wordlessly reassuring you that if he’s going to fall, it’s definitely going to be together. His grace swells inside you, thrusting and stretching you in sync to the work of your sensual strokes and snaking squeezes until a steady husky pant of your name and your harmonizing answered moans of ecstasy echo off the tiled walls.

Just as you feel the muscles of his abdomen contract and jolt, your name hitching in his gravelly throat, his cock spasming and spilling over your fingers, the torrent of pleasure teeming in your core breaks, submerging and drowning you in a deluge of ecstasy as you cry out his name for all the world and the heavens to hear.

You float together in the soft flicker of candlelight, boneless and limp as washed up jellyfish, until long after your skin prunes and the bath water grows tepid.


End file.
